


It's Not What You Did

by Ghostinthehouse



Series: Demon and Angel Professors [91]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mentioned Beelzebub (Good Omens), Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostinthehouse/pseuds/Ghostinthehouse
Summary: When the students finally realised that Dr Crowley wasn't taking their hints, they decided that they'd have to get more direct...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Demon and Angel Professors [91]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1412962
Comments: 28
Kudos: 1011
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	It's Not What You Did

Luc had been eating toast when Crowley appeared in the kitchen door. He leaned against the doorframe for a long moment, then his face went tight and he lunged for a chair. It threw Luc back to Sandy lunging for em. Ey curled in on emself, flinching back, frantic to hide, to escape, to...

There was a hiss of words above em, almost apologetic, but it couldn't be an apology, because it was only ever Luc's task to apologise for...whatever ey had done now. Ey didn't know, but ey apologised anyway, the words tumbling and stumbling from eir lips, as if ey could somehow apologise fast enough and extensively enough to avoid getting hurt this time.

There was a briefly raised voice yelling at - or for - someone. A brisk patter of feet brought a moment of calm washing ahead of them. Words began to make sense again.

"Crowley?"

"Leg," Crowley growled, as if that explained everything. "Luc first. Slowly. I startled em."

Luc hadn't realised until now just how carefully they moved around em. Now ey looked up from eir frozen ball of shaking limbs to see Aziraphale extend a hand very slowly, palm up, fingers slightly spread to make it look even more harmless. Soft, plump, hands. Elegantly manicured hands. Hands that Luc had once seen twist Sandy's arms efficiently up behind his back and was never going to see as harmless again. "I'm sorry..."

"For what?" Crowley hissed, his hands clamped over the edges of the table, even though he was slumped in one of the kitchen chairs. Luc recognised that look of trying to hide pain and flinched again.

"My dear, you have nothing to apologise for."

"But Crowley's hurt," ey mumbled, "and it's my fault."

Crowley muttered through gritted teeth, "S'not. S'older'n you."

"But-"

"Bad leg. Permanent. Bad day. Temp'ry. C'mon." Crowley peeled one hand off the table and held it out slowly.

Luc swallowed, and took their hands in eir own, letting them pull em up off the floor.

Crowley's mouth tightened at the corner, tilting upward as he smiled despite the pain he was clearly in. "Brave kid."

That rare open approval from _Dr Crowley_ brought a warmth to bolster the fragile calm. Luc managed a watery smile back, sank into one of the other chairs, and took a new piece of toast. 

Aziraphale and Crowley gave em a cautious look, and took up the thread of the day too, as if people falling apart on them was perfectly normal.

Crowley buried his face in one hand and kneaded his knee with the other..

Dr Fell bustled over to the kettle. "Crowley?"

He sighed. "Yes, angel?"

"I'm making tea, dear. Do you want...?"

"My usual, yes, angel. No change there."

* * *

When the students finally realised that Dr Crowley wasn't taking their hints, they decided that they'd have to get more direct.

"I heard Professor Fly call him 'nice'..." one student ventured.

Nice, was, on consideration, better than they had dared hope for. Someone volunteered to move a book from Professor Fly's office to the greenhouse, so that the two would have to interact.

Dr Crowley arrived to take his usual lesson, slithered down onto his usual bench, and the students held their breath as they saw him notice the book. "All right, whose is this?" he asked, holding it up.

There was a wary silence. He rolled his head in lieu of rolling his eyes. "Well, it's not mine, I don't read books." He opened it, however, with the distinct care of a booklover, smoothed down a page and frowned at an inscription inside. "Right. You," he pointed to the closest student, "take this back to Professor Fly, who owns it, and tell whoever put it here - I'm sure you know - that they're lucky they had to deal with me and not Professor Fly. Or worse," he raised a warning eyebrow, "Dr Fell. You don't want to know what he thinks of people who leave books somewhere like this."


End file.
